Five Cents of Salt

The machine won't take it, no matter the lean,

it just rattles down the throat of the green machine.

I fish it from the slot, a 1994 face,

scratched and dull, a coin out of place.

It smells like a copper pipe, or an old metal gate,

leaving a gray, salty film that I’ve learned to hate.

I rub it on my jeans to clear off the grime,

but some things don't get better with a little more time.

It’s too light for the sensor, too worn for the gear,

just a bit of dead weight I’ve been carrying here.

I put it back in my pocket with the rest of the change,

feeling the weight of the small and the strange.